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Hang on such thorns and play as wantonly They contrast remarkably with the tone of When summer's breath their masked buds the 32nd Sonnet,discloses :

“These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover." But, for their virtue only is their show, They live unwoo'd, and unrespected fade;

Meres has a passage :

As Ovid saith of his Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so; worksOf their sweet deaths are sweetest odours

'Jamque opus exegi quod nec Jovis ira, nec made:

ignis, And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,

Nec poterit ferrum, nec edax abolere vetusWhen that shall fade, by verse distils your truth.–54.

and as Horace saith of his, Not marble, not the gilded monuments

Exegi monumentum ære perenniu &c.; Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme; so say I severally of Sir Philip Sidney's, But you shall shine more bright in these con- Spenser's, Daniel's, Drayton's, Shakespeare's, tents

and Warner's works." What Ovid and Than unswept stone, besmeard with sluttish

Horace said is imitated in the 55th Sonnet. time.

But we greatly doubt if what Meres would When wasteful war shall statues overturn,

have said of Shakspere he would have said And broils root out the work of masonry, Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall

of himself, except in some assumed character,

to which we have not the key. Ben Jonson, burn The living record of your memory.

to whom a boastful spirit has with some 'Gainst death and all oblivious enmity

justice been objected, never said anything Shall you pace forth ; your praise shall still so strong of his own writings; and he wrote

with too much reliance, in this and other Even in the eyes of all posterity

particulars, upon classical examples. But That wear this world out to the ending doom. Jonson was not a writer of Sonnets, which,

So till the judgment that yourself arise, pitched in an artificial key, made this boastYou live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes. ful tone a constituent part of the whole per

—55. formance. The man, who never once speaks

of his own merits in his dramas, the greatest Wherever we meet with these magnificent promises of the immortality which the poet's

productions of the human intellect, when he verses are to bestow, we find them associated put on the imaginary character in which a with that personage, the representative at poet is weaving a fiction out of his supposed once of “ Adonis" and of “Helen,” who pre- form himself to the practice of other masters

personal relations, did not hesitate to consents himself to us as the unreal coinage of of the art. Shakspere here adopted the tone the fancy. In many of the lines which we have given in the second division of this

which Spenser, Daniel, and Drayton had inquiry, the reader will have noticed the adopted. The parallel appears to us very affecting modesty, the humility without remarkable ; and we must beg the indulgence

of our readers while we present them a few abasement, of the great poet comparing himself with others. Here Shakspere indeed passages from each of these writers.

And first of Spenser. His 27th Sonnet speaks. For example, take the whole of the

will furnish 32nd Sonnet. We should scarcely imagine,

an adequate notion of the if the poem were continuous, as Mr. Brown general tone of his 'Amoretti,' and of the

self-exaltation which appears to belong to believes, that the last stanza of the second

this species of poem :portion of it in his classification would conclude with these lines :

“Fair Proud ! now tell me, why should fair be

proud,

Sith all world's glory is but dross unclean, “Not marble, not the gilded monuments

And in the shade of death itself shall shroud, Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme." However now thereof ye little ween!

find room,

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That goodly idol, now so gay beseen,
Shall doff her flesh's borrow'd fair attire ;
And be forgot as it had never been;
That many now much worship and admire!
Ne any then shall after it inquire,
Ne any mention shall thereof remain,
But what this verse, that never shall expire,
Shall to you purchase with her thankless pain!

Fair! be no longer proud of that shall perish,
But that, which shall you make immortal,

cherish." And the 69th Sonnet is still more like the model upon which Shakspere formed his 55th:" The famous warriors of the antique world

Us'd trophies to erect in stately wise,
In which they would the records have enroll'd
Of their great deeds and valorous emprise.
What trophy then shall I most fit devise,
In which I may record the memory
Of my love's conquest, peerless beauty's prize,
Adorn'd with honour, love, and chastity ?
Even this verse, vow'd to eternity,
Shall be thereof immortal monument;
And tell her praise to all posterity,
That may admire such world's rare wonder-

ment;
The happy purchase of my glorious spoil,

Gotten at last with labour and long toil.” Spenser's 75th Sonnet also thus closes: “My verse your virtues rare shall eternize, And in the heavens write your glorious name. Where, when as Death shall all the world

subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.” Of Daniel's Sonnets, the 41st and 42nd furnish examples of the same tone, though somewhat more subdued than in Shakspere or Spenser :“Be not displeas'd that these my papers should

Bewray unto the world how fair thou art;
Or that my wits have show'd the best they

could, (The chastest flame that ever warmed heart !) Think not, sweet Delia, this shall be thy shame, My muse should sound thy praise with mourn.

ful warble; How many live, the glory of whose name Shall rest in ice, when thine is gravid in

marble ! Thou mayst in after ages live esteemid, Unburied in these lines, reserv'd in pureness; These shall entomb those eyes, that have re

deem'd Me from the vulgar, thee from all obscureness. Although my careful accents never mov'd

thee, Yet count it no disgrace that I have lov’d

thee."

· Delia, these eyes, that so admire thine, Have seen those walls which proud ambition

rear'd To check the world; how they entomb'd have

lien
Within themselves, and on them ploughs have

ear'd.
Yet never found that barbarous hand attain'd
The spoil of fame deserv'd by virtuous men;
Whose glorious actions luckily had gain'd
The eternal annals of a happy pen.
And therefore grieve not if thy beauties die;
Though time do spoil thee of the fairest veil
That ever yet cover'd mortality;
And must enstar the needle and the rail.
That grace which doth more than enwoman

thee, Lives in my lines, and must eternal be." But Drayton, if he display not the energy of Shakspere, the fancy of Spenser, or the sweetness of Daniel, is not behind either in the extravagance of his admiration or his confidence in his own power. The 6th and the 44th ‘Ideas' are sufficient examples :“How many paltry, foolish, painted things,

That now in coaches trouble every street,
Shall be forgotten, whom no poet sings,
Ere they be well wrapp'd in their winding-

sheet!
When I to thee eternity shall give,
When nothing else remaineth of these days,
And queens hereafter shall be glad to live
Upon the alms of thy superfluous praise ;
Virgins and matrons, reading these my rhymes,
Shall be so much delighted with thy story,
That they shall grieve they liv'd not in these

times, To have seen thee, their sex's only glory: So thou shalt fly above the vulgar throng,

Still to survive in my immortal song." “Whilst thus my pen strives to eternize thee,

Age rules my lines with wrinkles in my face,
Where, in the map of all my misery,
Is modell’d out the world of my disgrace:
Whilst, in despite of tyrannizing rhymes,
Medea-like, I make thee young again,
Proudly thou scorn'st my world out-wearing

rhymes, And murther'st virtue with thy coy disdain; And though in youth my youth untimely

perish, To keep thee from oblivion and the grave, Ensuing ages yet my rhymes shall cherish, Where I entomb'd my better part shall save;

And though this earthly body fade and die,

My name shall mount upon eternity.” We now proceed to what appears another continuous poem amongst Shakspere's Sonnets, addressed to the same ohject as the

first nineteen stanzas were addressed to, and devoted to the same admiration of his personal beauty.

The leading idea is now that of the spoils of Time, to be repaired only by the immortality of verse :

Not that the summer is less pleasant now Than when her mournful hymns did hush

the night, But that wild music burthens every bough, And sweets grown common lose their dear

delight. Therefore, like her, I sometime hold my

tongue, Because I would not dull you with my song.

-102

Where art thou, Muse, that thou forgett'st so

long To speak of that which gives thee all thy

might? Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song, Darkening thy power, to lend base subjects

light? Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem In gentle numbers time so idly spent; Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem, And gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise, restive Muse, my love's sweet face sur

vey, If Time have any wrinkle graven there; If any, be a satire to decay, And make Time's spoils despised everywhere. Give my love fame, faster than Time wastes

life; So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked

knife.100.

Alack ! what poverty my Muse brings forth,
That having such a scope to show her pride,
The argument, all bare, is of more worth,
Than when it hath my added praise beside.
O blame me not if I no more can write !
Look in your glass, and there appears a face
That overgoes my blunt invention quite,
Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace.
Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,
To mar the subject that before was well ?
For to no other pass my verses tend,
Than of your graces and your gifts to tell ;
And more, much more, than in my verse

can sit, Your own glass shows you when you look

in it. -103.

O truant Muse, what shall be thy amends,
For thy neglect of truth in beauty dy'd ?
Both truth and beauty on my love depends;
So dost thou too, and therein dignified.
Make answer, Muse : wilt thou not haply say,
Truth needs no colour with his colour fix'd,
Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay;
But best is best, if never intermix'd ?"-
Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be

dumb?
Excuse not silence so; for it lies in thee
To make him much outlive a gilded tomb,
And to be prais'd of ages yet to be.

Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how
To make him seem long hence as he shows

now.-101.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters'

cold Have from the forest shook three summers

pride; Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn

turn'd, In process

of the seasons have I seen, Three April perfumes in three hot Junes

burn'd, Since first I saw you fresh which yet are green. Ah! yet doth beauty, like a dial hand, Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv'd; So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth

stand, Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv'd. For fear of which, hear this, thou age un

bred, Ere you were born, was beauty's summer

dead.—104.

My love is strengthen'd, though more weak

in seeming; I love not less, though less the show appear; That love is merchandis'd whose rich esteem

ing The owner's tongue doth publish everywhere. Our love was new, and then but in the spring, When I was wont to greet it with my lays; As Philomel in summer's front doth sing, And stops his pipe in growth of riper days :

Let not my love be call'd idolatry,
Nor my beloved as an idol show,
Since all alike my songs and praises be,
To one, of one, still such, and ever so.

Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,
Still constant in a wondrous excellence;
Therefore my verse, to constancy confin’d,
One thing expressing, leaves out difference.
Fair, kind, and true, is all my argument,
Fair, kind, and true, varying to other words;
And in this change is my invention spent,
Three themes in one, which wondrous scope

affords.
Fair, kind, and true, have often liv'd alone,
Which three, till now, never kept seat in

one.-105.

Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers

divine,
I must each day say o'er the very same;
Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,
Even as when first I hallow'd thy fair name.
So that eternal love in love's fresh case
Weighs not the dust and injury of age,
Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,
But makes antiquity for aye his page ;

Finding the first conceit of love there bred,
Where time and outward form would show

it dead.-108.

When in the chronicle of wasted time

If there be nothing new, but that which is

Hath been before, how are our brains beguild, I see descriptions of the fairest wights, And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,

Which labouring for invention bear amiss

The second burthen of a former child !
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then in the blazon of sweet beauty's best,

0, that record could, with a backward look,

E'en of five hundred courses of the sun, Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,

Show me your image in some antique book, I see their antique pen would have express'd Even such a beauty as you máster now.

Since mind at first in character was done ! So all their praises are but prophecies

That I might see what the old world could Of this our time, all you prefiguring ;

say And, for they look'd but with divining eyes,

To this composed wonder of your frame; They had not skill enough your worth to

Whether we are mended, or whe'r better they,

Or whether revolution be the same. sing; For we, which now behold these present

O ! sure I am, the wits of former days days,

To subjects worse have given admiring Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to

praise.---59. praise.-106.

Like as the waves make towards the pebbled

shore, Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul So do our minutes hasten to their end; Of the wide world dreaming on things to Each changing place with that which goes come,

before, Can yet the lease of my true love control,

In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Suppos’d as forfeit to a confin'd doom.

Nativity, once in the main of light, The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur'd,

Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, And the sad augurs mock their own presage ; Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, Incertainties now crown themselves assurd,

And Time, that gave, doth now his gift conAnd peace proclaims olives of endless age.

found. Now with the drops of this most balmy time Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth, My love looks fresh, and Death to me sub- And delves the parallels in beauty's brow; scribes,

Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, Since spite of him I'll live in this poor rhyme, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow. While he insults o'er dull and speechless

And yet, to times in hope, my verse shall tribes.

stand, And thou in this shalt find thy monument,

Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. When tyrants' crests and tombs of brass

-60. are spent.—107.

Of these eleven stanzas nine are consecutive What's in the brain that ink may character,

in the original, being numbered 100 to 108. Which hath not figur'd to thee my true spirit? The other two, the 59th and 60th, are What's new to speak, what now to register,

certainly isolated in the first arrangement; That may express my love, or thy dear merit? | but the idea of the 108th glides into the

Presume not on thy heart when mine is

slain; Thou gav 'st me thine, not to give back

again.-22.

59th, and closes appropriately with the 60th. But there is a short poem which stands completely alone in the original edition, the 126th ; and it is remarkable for being of a different metrical character, wanting the distinguishing feature of the Sonnet in its number of lines. Its general tendency, however, connects it with those which we have just given

O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour; Who hast by waning grown, and therein

show'st Thylovers withering, as thy sweet self

grow'st! If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack, As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee

back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May Time disgrace, and wretched minutes

kill. Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure; She may detain, but not still keep, her

treasure : Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be, And her quietus is to render thee.—126.

Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
And all my soul, and all my every part;
And for this sin there is no remedy,
It is so grounded inward in my heart.
Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,
No shape so true, no truth of such account,
And for myself mine own worth do define,
As I all other in all worths surmount.
But when my glass shows me myself indeed,
Beated and chopp'd with tann'd antiquity,
Mine own self-love quite contrary I read,
Self so self-loving were iniquity.

'T is thee (myself) that for myself I praise, Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

—62.

Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crush'd and

o'erworn; When hours have drain’d his blood, and fillid

his brow With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful

morn

There is an enemy as potent as Time, who cuts down the pride of youth as the flower of the field. That enemy is Death; and the poet most skilfully presents the images of mortality to his “lovely boy" in connexion with the decay of the elder friend. In this portion of the poem there is a touching simplicity, which, however, is intermingled with passages which, denoting that the Poet is still speaking in character, take the stanzas, in some degree, out of the range of the

Hath travelld on to age's steepy night;
And all those beauties, whereof now he's king,
Are vanishing or vanish'd out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's

life. His beauty shall in these black lines be

seen, And they shall live, and he in them, still

green.-63.

real :

My glass shall not persuade me I am old,
So long as youth and thou are of one date;
But when in thee time's furrows I behold,
Then look I death my days should expiate.
For all that beauty that doth cover thee
Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,
Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me;
How can I then be elder than thou art?
O therefore, love, be of thyself so wary,
As I not for myself but for thee will ;
Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so chary,
As tender nurse her babe from faring ill.

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defac'd,
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-rasid,
And brass eternal, slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watry main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state itself confounded to decay;
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.

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